


Battlefield

by Heidigard



Category: Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Z
Genre: Bulma POV, Changing POV, F/M, Fingerfucking, First Kiss, First Time, Maybe slightly dub-con if you squint?, Seduction, Wall Sex, but not really, vegeta POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 02:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20923019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heidigard/pseuds/Heidigard
Summary: Vegeta and Bulma get together, but it's a battle.Set between Friezer and Cell Saga, but not 100% canon compliant (mostly because I don't remember XD).





	1. Small things

**Author's Note:**

> This was by far the longest published fanfic I have ever written (until I finally finished my Supernatural fic "Being Human", in case you want to read it) and I can't believe it because it is the only thing I ever wrote for DBZ, and I'm not even a reader of DBZ fanfic. In short: I have no idea how this happened!  
The story is told both from Vegeta's and Bulma's side. Sorry about the randomly changing POVs. I guess that also just... happened.

It starts with something small.

He just stands there next to her with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, looking forlorn as he stares at the scene in front of him, and she just reaches out and briefly squeezes his hand. His skin is hot to the touch, the palm broad and rough. He twitches almost imperceptibly at the contact, but she lets go again before he can react.

By the time he has turned his head towards her with a sneering glare, she has already moved away.

ZzZzZzZzZzZz

The next time, he has just finished helping with the re-construction of her father’s lab.

No one expected him to actually assist when asked, but here he is, naked to the waist and shirt hanging in tatters, with dirt smeared across his pectorals and cheeks. He looks as if he can’t quite himself believe that he actually answered the summons, his mouth set in a contemptuous line, but his gaze seems turned inward.

She doesn’t think about it, just grabs his hand, lifts up on her tiptoes and pecks him on the cheek. “Thanks,” she trills as he flushes crimson to the roots of his hair, his fists and jaw clenching in irritation or embarrassment. Who knows?

She does not wait around for the impending explosion.

ZzZzZzZzZzZz

It becomes something of a pattern, the casual touches, the joining of hands, however briefly. The more it happens, the less he reacts, ignoring her much like an old dog would an exuberant puppy, or a bear a swarm of bees. This makes her bolder, makes her want to see how far she can push, how far she HAS to push to gain a reaction. Also, she is beginning to think he is rather sexy with his brooding scowl and constant silence, his body radiating heat like a furnace every time she goes near him, and she longs to touch the fire inside.

The unexplained magnetism of his cool remoteness draws her in. By now, her hands are used to the feel of his callused, dry palms and her lips know the shape of his cheek bone. He is always clean-shaven and she wonders if some Saiyans just don’t have the follicles to grow beards. He certainly does not seem the type to stand on meticulous morning routines, judging by the raw, animal smell of him, the musky scent of his hair and the fact that there always seems to be grime stuck on some part of his person.

Thoughts of his daily ablutions drag her mind down obvious pathways. She begins to wonder what he looks like when undressing or in the shower.

Does he style his hair afterwards?

Does he sleep naked?

What does the place at the bottom of his spine look like now, where his tail used to sit?

But these are dangerous thoughts. Tempting, perfect for her daydreams, but risky none the less, especially when she sees him every day, half-naked and literally steaming; when they sit close on the sofa in front of the TV, or on a bench in the kitchen.

She knows he seeks solitude, that there is always a massive bubble of personal space around him with barbed wire fencing and “keep out” signs flashing in huge neon letters, with “danger” written all over him. Yet she always seems to end up right next to him, pushing at his boundaries, stumbling through his defences and into his sphere like an unwitting cat or chicken or cow wanders into the no-man’s-land between the trenches.

Partly, it is her fault, she knows. She has always been attracted to danger, to creatures others would hid under their beds from, and she likes to tease, to poke and prod at sleeping bears or dragons until they bite. She knows better, but like a child with a fork she keeps going for the power socket despite her better judgment.

He watches her coolly, disdain written all over his features, watches her fall into his orbit like a troublesome meteorite, though she is not even massive enough to put so much as a scratch in his armour. Maybe that is his folly: his dismissal of her.

But she plays her cards with astonishing cunning. He feels reminded of the story with the boy and the fox because, even though he is unable to say how or when it happened, he is starting to get used to this, these situations; to her.

He doesn’t flinch any longer when she touches his hand or shoulder or arm because rationally, he knows she is no threat. He stops reacting to her lips on his face because he knows she won’t stop and short of killing her, he cannot make her, he has learned. When she approaches, he remains still. He has tried creating distance by moving away, but she just keeps following until it feels like he is retreating from her and that admission would be something he absolutely could not stand. He will not be defeated and herded about like mindless cattle, like he is just another man on this planet of imbeciles. He will stand his ground.

So he stays seated on the sofa when she comes over to pluck the remote from his hands and settles beside him, her feet tucked under her shapely bottom.

Wait.

He did NOT just think that.

Annoyed with himself, he huffs out a breath, his muscles tensing so he can rise and walk away, but who is he running away from? Or what? Despite what others think, he is capable of self-reflection and by now, he knows that he would never outrun himself, his own inadequacies. He sinks back into the cushions with a contemptuous curl of his lip, barely seeing the screen through the veil of his thoughts.

It is late. Somehow, he does not realise this until there is a sudden weight gradually sinking against his shoulder, blue hair tickling his neck. He glances down and yes, her head has settled against him. The colourful light from the TV flickers across her closed eye lids, painting her skin in watercolour patterns. He never knew what beauty was, has never grasped the concept, but he thinks that maybe he is learning.

Next is the outrage. How dare she use him as a head rest! Him! The prince of all Saiyans! The indignation boils within him, frothing in his chest. He could snap her neck and be done with this nonsense once and for all. It would be quick. She wouldn't even wake.

He reaches across with his hand, slowly, as a human would when preparing to swat a fly, but instead of harming her, of crushing her spine and watching her head flop from a lifeless body’s shoulders like he has with so many adversaries on so many planets and on so many previous occasions, he watches as his finger tips settle against her cheek, gliding backwards towards the space below her ear. Her skin is so soft it feels like the clouds he sometimes zooms through, barely there. How easy it would be to rip it from her bones.

She dozes on, oblivious, and he just can't do it. Her trusting openness is disarming. Doesn't she know the danger she is in this very second, EVERY second she is near him? She has called him a monster so many times. Does she not know what that word means, how well it fits him?

Her pulse beats under his finger tip, nudging him. He jerks back his hand, half afraid of his thoughts and that he might harm her unwittingly, and half annoyed with himself for even considering such acts, for reaching out, for his shamefully lacking self-control. This needs to stop.

He stands abruptly. The sudden shift in position wakes her with a start.

"Hey!" she complains, scowling.

His fists clench. "Stop this nonsense, woman." he thunders, aware that he is being too loud in the night-time silent house. She blinks at him, but then she is on her feet, a single finger stabbing into his chest as she gets up in his face.

"No, YOU stop it." she retorts childishly. "I have had enough of your attitude, Mr. Saiyan Prince, lazing around all day in my space ship, eating my food, dirtying my floors, being good for nothing and then jerking me around when I am trying to sleep. What is your problem? Not enough people to dismember for sport? Get a grip, Vegeta!"

He has no idea what to say to that, so he responds by seizing her wrist, a small part of his mind still conscious of her eggshell-fragile bones, and directing it away from his chest. She is breathing hard and he can smell the agitation surrounding her. It excites him.

Not knowing what to do with this revelation, he simply growls at her and turns to go while she nags at his back.

When he arrives in his room, he realises that he did not defend himself, not even with words, even though he did not do anything to warrant her vitriol. What is wrong with him?

ZzZzZzZzZzZz

The longer he stays at her home, the better he gets to know her. It is entirely involuntary – not like he is trying to learn what her favourite breakfast food is or what colour her underwear, that she has no qualms about designing weapons but abhors murder, that her parents are the most important people in her life - but he supposes that it cannot be helped when living in close proximity.

The issue that irks him is that he grudgingly learns to respect her. He sees what a strong woman she is, how in control of her household, her work, the people around her (of him), and he appreciates that. Her casual touches, so annoying in the beginning, are turning into something he may crave just a tiny little bit, in secret. No one will ever know.

Is it because he has never had the luxury of casual contact before? He is not used to touching without intent to hurt. Sure, he knows the mockery of tenderness preceding a cruel blow. He has served under Freezer long enough to realised what a terrifying threat it can be, a weapon of psychological warfare. But here, they are not fighting. Not really. She is weak, but she is intelligent enough to know it, so she fights with words instead of her fragile fists and tiny ki, and that is no fight at all. He can appreciate an enemy who knows their limitations, yet her stupidity annoys him when she shows no fear in the face of a stronger opponent.

In turn, he begins to recognise his aggression towards her for what it is slowly turning into: desire. He shudders to think what would happen if anyone ever found out. It’s a good thing that violence is the only way he ever learned for dealing with emotions. This way, no one will ever suspect the truth.

Only, she is slowly learning how to approach him, winding tiny fingers under the edges and cracks of his armour. Her tactics are continuously adjusted. What looks like she is giving him just enough space to think she backed off – finally! – turns out to be just a ploy. Weeks pass and he finds that she crept even closer, incrementally closing the distance, while he thought he was safely out of her reach. He can’t help but admire her tactical thinking, even if it baffles him how such a tiny brain could devise such a plan.

She watches him constantly, out of the corner of her eye. By now, she has figured out one of the reasons why she feels so drawn to him: he is not chasing her. She is used to the looks she gets from men, is fully aware that she possesses all the desirable features of a female in abundance. She is accustomed to being pursued for it, and for her money as well. That he would chose not to follow this familiar pattern, even after ample opportunity, presents her with an intriguing puzzle.

Instead of him ogling her, she is the one constantly holding him in her sight, like she is waiting for the other shoe to drop. He looks remote, unattainable, always scowling with his thunderous thoughts far away. Maybe this is why she can’t help but keep bothering him, pulling him back down to earth, to make sure that he is not too distant to be touched.

She knows full well that she is winding him up, teasing him mercilessly, but by now he is something of a personal project.

She is not quite sure why she puts up with it; the disrespect, the backtalk. He never appreciates what she does for him, never shows a sign of recognition or gratitude. The disdainful sneer seems constantly glued to his face, as if he is looking down on everything around him all the time. Why does he stay, then? It is a question she wants the answer to, so she keeps on pushing, wanting to find out how far she can go before he snaps and tells her once and for all to back off.

But he doesn’t tell her. They never speak a single word of meaning to each other. Instead, he shouts at her in irritation and she screams back with righteous anger.

ZzZzZzZzZzZz

In the morning, he arrives in the kitchen to see her struggling to retrieve a horrid pink mug from a high shelf. She has one hand braced on the counter as she stretches, her top riding up to bare her waist. Her face is turning red under her frazzled head of hair, still untamed after her shower. It amuses him to watch her, so he finds a comfortable position leaning in the doorway, crossing his arms in front of his chest and just waits.

She is making frustrated noises that make him smirk as she wriggles and strains. Maybe this is another reason why he keeps her company: she is a constant source of entertainment, like a very shapely court jester.

His smirk widens. She re-plants her palm on the edge of the counter to gain better leverage, but there must have been a coffee spill or a stain of cooking oil that the cleaning bots missed because in the next instant, just as her fingertips finally hook around her prize, she is slipping, her hand losing purchase on the edge.

She begins to fall and he charts her path in his mind, how she will hit the counter with her chin, probably splitting the skin and cracking a few teeth in the process. The falling piece of crockery will knock her on the head, likely giving her a concussion, too.

He blinks and finds himself across the kitchen with an armful of flustered, but unharmed woman and a hand around a pink coffee mug.

For a second, they stare at each other, wide-eyed.

Then a tiny smile spreads across her face. "Thanks, Vegeta," she says, sincerely, as she rights herself, hands braced against his shoulder and chest. "Clumsy of me. That was a close call."

He is stunned, frozen, with his muscles still bunched tight from the sudden leap into action.

She laughs awkwardly as he fails to let her go. "Veg-"

"What are you doing, stupid wench?" he cuts across her, remembering himself. He straightens, dropping his arms, and the mug as he steps back. Shattering china accompanies his words.

Her face turns red again as she recognises the sound."What did you do that for?"

Just like that, the moment has passed and they are fighting like they always do. It is disquieting to think that, by now, this is their ‘normal’ - the constant bickering over nothing - their default mode of communication, their comfort zone.

ZzZzZzZzZzZz

She has had enough.

The tension between them is killing her and he is staring at her - again - like she is some piece of meat he is trying to decide on grilling. It’s not a sexy stare, either, more like an owl observing a rodent it may or may not be planning to eat. She feels like she has gone for days without taking a proper breath, his scent filling her nostrils on every inhale, seeming to pervade every room of her home. It's like his phantom is following her everywhere, like he is an invisible predator on the hunt for what she hopes is more than just a screaming match.

Something is about to snap, but she can’t predict when, or where. So she decides to take matters into her own hands and break the stalemate herself.

It’s the TV, again.

His gaze tracks her as she moves across the room towards him. She fancies his eyes flick downwards for a split second, to where her miniskirt is hugging her curves before darting back to the screen.

Yes, she thinks.

The volume on the TV is low. His ears do not require much for him to hear, as she has learned by now. Sometimes, it creeps her out how much he notices, how much he has probably heard of her conversations with herself. Maybe this will prove an advantage now.

She sinks down on the couch beside him, as gracefully as she can, sitting close enough that her bare leg is pressed against his clothed one, all the way from hip to heel. He frowns down at her for a second before clearly deciding to ignore her odd behaviour, but the sudden tension in his frame betrays him.

A second later, she becomes the object of his laser focus as she reaches for his hand, resting in his lap, and decisively placing it on the inside of her thigh. "What...?" he gasps. In answer, she presses his palm there, her fingers splayed between his, guiding it slowly further inwards and up towards her centre. The touch burns on her skin, the calluses scraping slightly. She looks up to find him staring, eyes wide and lips parted, cheeks pinkening; the proverbial deer in the headlights. Never has she seen him loose his composure so completely, and for that alone, she counts the situation as a win.

He is pliant to her manipulations, allowing her to touch his fingertips to her panties, right over her sex. She meets his stare, trying to communicate that this is a battle, but they are on the same side.

Moving his hand gently back and forth over that spot, she watches the emotions play over his features, shock and distrust, indignation and, yes, lust. His fingers twitch against her and she deliberately closes her eyes, letting her head fall back a little to expose her throat. She knows the pose looks sexy, but it has the added benefit of signalling that she is unafraid, that she is not fighting him now, baring the vulnerable expanse of her trachea and jugular to him.

He growls, low and animalistic, his hand tensing on her thigh, but not moving. Maybe he doesn’t know how to do this?

She continues rubbing his hand over herself almost like a bathing sponge before working one of his fingers under the material covering her. The hot digit feels glorious against her folds as she guides it closer, teasing herself almost as if he were just one of her toys.

The minutes tick by and he does not pull away, does not push her off the sofa or voice any protest.

She grows bolder, moving his finger deeper, getting another one to join it. He is not entirely passive, she discovers, when she finally touches his finger tips to her entrance: He works with her as she slides the digits inside, stiffening and crooking them just so.

She begins moving her hips, rocking gently into his hot touch, taking him deeper on each downward stroke. The wetness is seeping between their entwined fingers, making soft, squelching noises. By now, his whole hand has found its way inside her panties, covering her, cradling her. The back of his thumb is firmly massaging her clit and it is definitely him who is controlling that motion.

She is close now, her abdomen beginning to tighten in preparation for her climax. Opening her eyes, she finds his fiery gaze boring into her, his jaw clenched. It looks equal parts like fury and determination. She has slipped forward on the seat, her hips now moving freely and her head resting on the back of the couch while he half looms over her. Without warning, he viciously twists his fingers inside of her and she sees stars, her drawn-out moan bouncing off the walls of the living room.

Her heart fills with sudden, unexpected tenderness when she feels him halt for the briefest of moments as if to make sure he did not hurt her, that her noise was not one of distress, before repeating the motion, pushing even deeper into her.

By now, her hand is only resting on his, no longer directing or controlling and when she reaches her peak moments later with a high, keening noise, it is all him.

He withdraws his hand slowly, smearing slick wetness along her thigh. His hand ends up resting on her knee and she swears his thumb is completing a quarter circle there before he snatches his arm away.

There is utter silence between them, filled only by the background chatter of the TV.

He stares at his hand, coated in her glistening juices, looking both horrified and confused by this new puzzle.

She swallows thickly, the sofa cushion rustling as she makes to stand, but he grabs her wrist, lightning-fast, arresting her step. His black eyes are boring into hers, his lips pressed together. Is he angry? She can’t tell. Her gaze wavers, sliding away from his eyes and over the rest of him as he stares, unrelenting, and she finds clear evidence in the sizable bulge at his crotch that he is not wired completely the wrong way.

She reminds herself to breathe, to stand up straight and proud. There is nothing she need feel ashamed for. He had been a willing participant in her plan tonight, had he not? And she finally has her answer: this, whatever it is, is not entirely one-sided.

Almost as if sensing her thoughts, he scoffs and suddenly drops her arm. Neither of them says a word as she walks from the room, her head held high.

ZzZzZzZzZzZz


	2. Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Bulma going too far?

Vegeta is consumed by a restlessness that feels almost like fury bubbling in his limbs, like Ozaru is about to erupt despite his lack of a tail, prickling like his super-Saiyan flame is slowly turning his bones into cinder. He pounds his training bots all the harder in frustration. What has the woman done to him now?

The encounter a few nights ago had affected him in ways that he had never experienced, and more deeply than he was willing to admit even to himself. What had been a one-sided game, a creeping annoyance that could be ignored (albeit with some effort), has now turned him into a participant. She had made him into an accomplice. How? _How_ had this happened? How could he have _let_ this happen?

What is it that had happened, anyway?

Even though the memory replays over and over in his mind, torturing him, he cannot establish the facts beyond a simple narrative: she had asked, and he had... what? Responded? _Provided_?

He gnashes his teeth harder, growling at his own thoughts.

She has used him like an ordinary sex-bot! Him! The prince of all Saiyans! WHY had he not refused, pushed her away, broken that impudent hand of hers, or even her neck?

He knows the answer, of course. It is whispering in the blood rushing in his ears, telegraphing through the twitch of his muscles as he moves, swapping his usual fluid grace for nothing more than jerky efficiency. Most of all, it is obvious from the state of semi-permanent arousal that has plagued him ever since and which he absolutely refuses to acknowledge.

He wants her.

That is obvious now.

How he could ever have grown to want a puny, weak creature like her is beyond him, but somewhere, somehow she has infested his every thought. Damn it all to hell! He should just take her. He should just march out of here and claim what is his right, show her what it means to provoke a Saiyan prince! Pretentious little... woman!

But that would be akin to giving in to what she wants, what she has the gall to _demand_ of him – the reckless insolence! It boggles the mind! – and he simply refuses to do that, to follow her wishes, follow his desire and concede defeat on both fronts.

He fancies he can still smell her on his fingers when he lifts his hand to his face. The acidic aroma makes his mouth water.

He keeps on pounding his bots.

ZzZzZzZzZzZz

They meet in the corridor.

She looks like she has just come out of a successful business appointment: relaxed and self-assured in her white silk blouse and skirt. Her hair is a heap of curls, hemmed in by a headband. Not an unusual style, but somehow, the puzzling urge to bury his fingers in it bubbles up within him. He ruthlessly pushes it away with a disdainful curl of his lip.

She, as always, is not deterred by his forbidding expression, or put off by his sweaty and battered appearance, fresh out of training.

‘Vegeta!’ She smiles brightly at him as she approaches, something like determination glinting in her eyes. He has learned to be weary of that look. ‘Just the man I was looking for.’

The lightness of her tone seems to hide a deeper meaning that he can’t quite put his finger on. He prepares to push past her, ignoring the inviting scent of her skin beckoning to him as she draws closer, and gritting his teeth against the wave of desire threatening to rise in answer to her proximity, this disgusting weakness she calls forth so carelessly.

Following the pattern they have established of late, she refuses to let him just brush her off without a word, ignoring his wish to salvage his pride and leave her company as quickly as possible so he can attend to himself in peace.

‘Hey,’ she says in an oddly placating tone, completely at odds with her actions: she half steps into his path and grabs hold of his hand, sliding her small fingers into his palm, the mere touch arresting his step and making his heart rate jump. Splendid! Now even his body is not obeying his command anymore!

He glares at her in silent rage, incensed by her daring and his apparent inability to refuse her. He supposes he has only himself to blame, having allowed her uninvited touch before.

Ere he can form words of protest and outrage, she tugs on his arm. ‘Come,’ she trills. The simple word is filled with implication. As seems to become a loathsome habit of late, he starts to follow, goggling at her fearless, carefree demeanour. She looks back over her shoulder at him, _winking_.

Her shapely silhouette, graceful head held high, fills his vision as he tags behind, being led like a child. Will these insults never cease? What has she planned now?

They move down a set of corridors. Vegeta’s body appears to have disengaged from his mind, following meekly along while his thoughts whir and roar in outrage. There is usually no one in this part of the building at this time of day, so at least there are unlikely to be any witnesses to his humiliation.

The thought of being alone with her here - unobserved - strikes a spark in him, hot and terrible. It becomes harder to walk as desire for her and desire for revenge simultaneous build within him, warring with each other, and, far beneath it, the whispering fear, quickly smothered, that either might cause him to hurt her.

She notices nothing of this, with her back turned to him, doesn’t realise the danger she is in.

They turn a corner.

This is far enough, in more ways than one. He senses they may be reaching his breaking point, a concept so novel it defies description, and it takes all he has to contain himself for a moment longer.

He stops and the sudden tug on her hand makes her spin around to face him.

ZzZzZzZzZzZz

They seem to have hit a snag, but she has a goal and she is good at improvising.

Vegeta is looking at her like he is ready to explode, black eyes both wide with shock and tight with annoyance, pupils blown with – a brief glance downward; yep! – arousal. The game is almost up.

She blinks at him, then leans casually against the wall, drawing him – once more unresistant – around to face her. A deep breath makes her bosom heave as she looks at his thunderous face from underneath her lashes.

One more push, then. She had hoped he would not need quite so much... guidance.His non-reaction to her clear intent, her lascivious pose against the wall, her many signals (has she not been clear enough?) makes her roll her eyes.

"Oh for Kami’s sake!" Annoyance and impatience seep into her voice. She lets go of his hand and begins untucking her blouse with quick, efficient movements. "Come on, you know what to do!"

The challenge rings in the air between them, crackling like lightning, and she knows how hard it is for him to withstand a taunt like that. Without waiting for a response, she reaches out and unceremoniously places his hand against her chest, taking a half-step away from the wall to push against him since she can’t pull him in with words or physical strength.

As if her flesh were magnetic, his palm moulds around her breast.

"Touch me!" she commands.

He growls at her tone. Again and again, she assumes the right to direct his actions, and lately, he finds himself unable to disobey, particularly when obedience feels so rewarding. The soft, warm flesh under his palm, the hard knob of her nipple - before he knows what is happening, he is caressing her, his hand moving of its own accord.

A half second later, his thoughts catch up with his actions, and this, finally, is the tipping point, like the whistle breaking the suspended moment at the start of a race. His control snaps. Fury and desire are mixing with the utter confusion that has been swirling in his mind for weeks, maybe months, at last overruling the stoic front he has built so carefully, eradicating the self-control he prides himself on.

"What? What is it you want from me, woman?" he roars, and now he is the one pushing up against her, driving her back against the wall, cornering her. Their faces are a hair’s breadth apart. The vehemence of his response has surprised her. He can feel her agitated breaths on his chin.

He bares his teeth as he stares into her wide, shocked eyes, and because he is looking, he sees the steely determination slide in behind the blue irises, the resolve he so admires about her.

He realises his mistake too late. He has shown his hand in the way he cages her right now, how he reacts to her teasing.

"You know what I want." Her voice is sure and full of determination as he rears back, mouth open in shock and surprise as he fails to recognise himself in his actions, having lost the poise and dignity befitting a prince.

But it’s too late.

She strains forward and suddenly, they are kissing, passion exploding between them out of nowhere. How dare she? He gives as good as he gets, nipping and biting. His hands are wrapped around her upper arms and he knows there must be bruises in the shape of his fingertips. She does not seem to feel it. Her aggression in this act draws him in further, makes him reckless as it lights the fire within him that wants to consume her.

They exchange saliva, a disgusting human habit, but to his surprise, he finds that he likes it, enjoys the taste of her on his lips and deep in his mouth as their tongues meet and duel, for once an even match.

He is barely thinking at all, now, clutching at her like he is a mindless beast.

She keens and whimpers as he goes for her throat, teeth sinking into soft skin and leaving red imprints. Instead of struggling, she is pulling him closer, tugging at his clothing but not quite managing to tear the blue fabric. The pressure around his groin becomes unbearable in the tight confines of the suite and so he spares a moment to finish what she started and rip the cloth around his thighs to free himself.

They are both breathing hard now. He can feel her pulse like bird wings fluttering under his lips as he licks her scent off her sweet skin. The reprieve is only temporary before the next wave of ardour sweeps them up and away.

They appear to finally have arrived on the same page when she reaches for his hand to guide his palm just as he advances under her skirt. They move in tandem, up her thigh, pushing away the fabric. He growls against her throat when his fingertips meet only heat and wetness. She is not wearing any undergarments, the scheming little fiend! More evidence of her deviousness, but today, he appreciates her planning skills. This way, they will not waste valuable time on removing more layers of fabric between them.

He tests her with his fingers, imitating what he did that night on the sofa, and finds her more than ready to receive him. Not wasting another thought on just how carefully she has manipulated him and prepared this encounter, he withdraws, his hands sliding under her thighs and spreading her.

No verbal communication is necessary. Their bodies speak on their behalf. In one fluid series of motions as if this is a choreographed move between them and practised many times, her legs wrap tightly around his waist as he lifts her. At the same moment, she reaches down, directing him with eyes closed and head thrown back. One roll of his hips, half instinct, half vicious battle move, and with minimal resistance, he delves into her almost to the hilt.

They moan in unison at their long-anticipated union, breathing through only a second of stillness to appreciate this new situation.

Her insides are hot velvet, like the innards of his enemies, supple and oh-so-vulnerable in his hands as they gush red, but this time he is not intent on ripping his opponent to pieces. He will savour this victory, give his challenger what she deserves, and together, they will enjoy their sweet defeat at last.

The fire burns brighter as he moves, suspending her effortlessly against the wall and driving into her in long, hard strokes, drawing delicious little noises from her that he alternately laps up at her throat and drinks from her mouth.

She is clutching at him, riding the force of his ardour and anger. The corridor echoes with the animal noises they are making, base and filthy.

He steps even closer, changes the angle of his attack. Her fingernails are gauging the back of his neck, but the sting is insignificant. They balance the bruises he must be leaving on her, _in_ her as their furious coupling is nearing its conclusion.

He can feel his abdomen pulling tight in preparation for expelling his seed into this willing receptacle, just as she is tightening around him, hips stuttering on a few uneven trusts. A shaky breath explodes from her in a long, broken moan.

The sight of her exposed throat, the feel of her lithe body pressed so wantonly against him, fearless, open and prepared to accept anything he deigns to give her – pleasure or death – sends him over the edge to follow her. He can’t hold himself back: in the throes of passion, he bites the side of her neck, this time breaking the skin. The taste of blood only spurs him on as he pumps into her relaxing body.

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It’s over.

Their breathing slows down, her nipples rubbing across silk and the smooth front of his breastplate as they inhale each other's air, heated faces still close enough to brush noses.

She slowly opens her eyes, lids heavy, and gazes across at him. Their eyes meet and for a brief moment something almost like tender desperation seems to mix with the grim satisfaction she finds in his look.

Her hands untangle behind his neck, scraping through the edges of his sweaty-wet hair. She can feel him sliding out of her, along with copious amounts of warm, viscous fluid, as he sets her down almost gently before he drops his hands to his sides.

Holding on to his shoulders a moment longer while she finds her balance, she watches the play of emotions beneath his shuttered face. There is still a level of reluctance and disgust visible, yes, but it appears half-hearted. The well-hidden (but not invisible) confusion slowly blooming in the depth of those dark eyes is layered by anger and contempt, drenched now in post-coital satiation and something infinitely softer. She decides not to wait for the mellow sentiment to dissipate.

Stepping away from him, she turn with as much grace as she can wring from her aching muscles and steps through the nearest door, incidentally the one leading into her room, closing it quietly behind her.

She is certain he will not follow her, not now anyway. Maybe, in time, if her hook has finally caught (hopefully), he will become a willing and regular guest in her bedroom. If not... well, she has an active imagination and no lack of creative tools to make up for the absence of a partner to satisfy her while she continues her work on him.

In the bathroom, the sight of herself in the mirror draws her up short. She looks a mess, make-up smudged by sweat, hair in disarray. Turning a little, she discovers the source of the discomfort at her shoulder: a bite-mark, still fresh and bleeding.

That savage has broken her perfect skin! She almost turns on her heel to march out there again and give Mister Saiyan Prince a piece of her mind when she remembers that, for once, she may be to blame just as much as he, if not more. After all, she did set out to provoke him into action, and it is no one’s fault but her own if these are the consequences.

She sighs, fetching some antiseptic and gauze to clean up the wound. When she is done, the spike of her anger has subsided entirely and given way to a feeling of pride. This is a battle wound – may even turn into a battle scar if she chooses not to fix it – and a clear sign of her victory.

Divesting herself of her clothes, she steps into the shower. Bruises are now forming on many parts of her body. Some she discovers by touch, a dull ache under the smooth glide of her wash cloth. Others she can plainly see already.

She feels sore all over, but most of all where he pounded into her, his impressive girth stretching her flesh. It feels glorious and she congratulates herself on her foresight. This experience could have held a significant level of discomfort if she weren’t the resourceful, worldly woman she prides herself on being. As it is, her preparations had been adequate to help the enjoyment of the encounter match up with the anticipation.

Still, next time, she would much prefer to use a softer surface. Caught between the wall of the corridor and wall of his muscular body, she has endured a similar treatment as a sheet of metal between hammer and anvil. She snickers at the thought. How cliché!

But it has been worth it. She would forever treasure the look of confusion on his face when she had placed his hand on her, and the satisfaction he had not been able to hide when they were done. This has been good for him, too - as also evidenced by the semen streaking down her legs. Kami, she should have talked to Chichi first! This part is a lot messier than she has anticipated. She cannot wait to repeat the experience.

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Unfortunately, their encounter seems to have the opposite effect than expected: instead of the tensions in the household finally dissipating, they appear to be rising even more.

By now, her father is giving her strange looks, as if something is dawning on him that he can’t quite grasp yet. Thankfully, her mother is still as oblivious as always.

Vegeta avoids her with a studied diligence that would have been almost comical if it weren’t so annoying. However, whenever their paths do cross, their tempers instantly ignite and a shouting match ensue that might bring the roof down on any less sturdy building (the dome-shape of the house is, luckily, quite shock-absorbent).

If things continue in this way, she might have to initiate again to unwind him (both of them) a bit. The problem is that she is a strategist of a certain intellect, and she recognises the need for patience. She has been teasing and manipulating long enough, has made her desire quite clear. It would not be beneficial to their future relationship (because she is still hoping to lay some foundations here) to keep pushing as she has lest she does indeed end up driving Vegeta away entirely, fleeing in an annoyed huff. The next move would have to be his, or at least, a mutual step.

Still, the waiting is agonising. Now that she has tasted the forbidden fruit, she cannot help but want more. The anticipation is killing her. Will the clash again like the first time, thunder and lightning, animalistic passion with no regard for the consequences? Or will they take more time to explore, get to know each other’s bodies.

Does he even want to know her body?

Most days, she is quite sure that nothing could be further from his thoughts, but then she remembers the looks he sometimes gives her, and these are the moments she clings to.

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Vegeta is restless. As much as he wishes he could say the coupling with the devious woman – ‘Bulma’, his memory helpfully supplies - doesn’t affect him, it would be pointless denying that it is haunting his every thought.

Strangely, he feels like he understands better now why Kakarot has become so attached to this little ball of dirt and his inhabitants, and the absurdity of that thought makes him want to rip his own arms off in frustration. How anyone could train effectively with a distraction like a warm, willing body constantly parading around the house – he knows now what this body feels like when wrapped tight and hot around him; has invaded its most intimate place – was beyond him.

The draw of her is almost as strong as the enormous gravity of his training chamber that is pushing him to the ground. Maybe he needs to keep working against it, just as he does with his physical exercises, and his mind will eventually learn to withstand the incessant pull, but until he becomes strong enough to reliably resist, he struggles with his daily frustration about nearly giving in to his baser desires once more, hating himself, hating his weakness.

Again, the thought enters his mind of how easy it would be to rid himself of the distraction. She is fragile. It would not take any kind of effort to extinguish her. Yet he shies away from the thought, like one of those idiots newly converted to a herbivorous diet would from a bloody steak. Somehow, through the months he had been here, through an impenetrable mix of caring and friendly words, fearless verbal sparring and devious plotting and a hundred other little things, she has carved herself a place in his thoughts, a place of appreciation and respect, and taken up residence in the hollow, burnt-out husk of his heart that has been black and empty since his earliest childhood days.

The realisation warms him just as it galls him beyond imagination.

There is nothing for it. She is a liability, a distraction, and as much as he wants to give in to her pleading blue eyes and gentle hands, he has a goal. He has his pride and the pride of all Saiyans to defend, and as their prince, he cannot let down what little remains of his people, but most importantly, he will not let himself down. He has sworn to become the best, more powerful than any of his enemies, even more powerful than Kakarot, and he will not be able to do that here, under her longing eye.

He needs to leave. He needs to go now, before he changes his mind, and not come back until he has fulfilled his self-assigned mission. Afterwards, maybe, he can approach her again. The thought, pathetic as it is, speeds him along.

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	3. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, you know what the consequences are...

The roar of the engines is what wakes her.

She slides out of bed and runs to the window, but it’s too late. The tail light of the space ship is a quickly diminishing glint among the stars. She knows what has happened.

Swallowing against her sudden tightness in her throat, she sinks heavily down on the mattress again, her heart constricting. So she did push too hard. Or he did not share her feelings to the degree she had thought. Either way, it hurts more than she had anticipated.

She lies awake for the rest of the night, wondering what she should do: wait for his return or carry on with her life. Their romance, if it could even be called that, has only been brief anyway, a fling, quickly brushed off and forgotten. And yet... she had invested more time and effort, planning and care into conquering the Saiyan prince’s heart that she had in any other and boy! He did make her work for it! Still, she had always been certain that deep beneath the gruff exterior, there was an answering spark.

Maybe she has just imagined it.

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Weeks turn into months and Bulma distracts herself from watching the skies by working in her lab, alongside her father, day in and day out.

Her mother is complaining that she is growing fat, with no exercise and so little time spent outside her office, but she does not understand the depth of her daughter’s heartbreak.

As time passes, that wound is healing, but it is slow going, much slower than the reality of the experience warrants. Sometimes, Bulma wonders if her hormones are playing tricks on her because, rationally, she should be over the arrogant prick by now. Oddly, her mood seems to swing worse from day to day, though.

Eventually, crying becomes a regular part of her routine, and she resents herself for it. What is wrong with her?

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It is going on four months since the night Vegeta left and Bulma is furious.

It seems her mother is right: she is getting fat! Her favourite jeans will not fit around her middle anymore and the dress she picks out instead, a form-fitting affair that shows off her curves in the most favourable way, makes her belly look sort of round and pinches her breasts. Definitely time to adopt a sports regime! Also, she has to tell the cook to cut back on the pastries.

Sighing, she opts for a looser fit: baggy pants and a t-shirt. She will only be in the workshop today, after all. As always.

On the way down the stairs, she is grumbling about how Vegeta is ruining her figure, even from a distance. If he hadn’t left, she wouldn’t see the need to bury herself in work and chocolate, and she would certainly see more exercise; the fun kind.

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Sports are boring. How Goku and Vegeta can stand it is a mystery to her.

The repetitiveness, the sweat, the muscle aches. It’s mind-numbingly dull and tedious. How Vegeta could have left her scintillating company in favour of _that_ is nothing but a source of indignation for her.

Men! She will never understand them.

Yamcha too! He is obsessed with building his musculature even though it makes him look like a blow-up doll. (She doesn’t tell him that.) He is a good friend again, now that Vegeta is gone. He still does his best to demonstrate daily why she broke up with him, but at least he is there for her, which is more than can be said for most of her other friends, but that’s what you get when you hang out mainly with boys (men, now, she reminds herself).

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Five weeks on and the sports routine she is forcing herself to endure does seem to improve her figure... anywhere but her tummy. But that’s what they all say, isn’t it? You can’t choose where you lose fat.

On the downside, the constant work-outs have her experiencing a level of fatigue she has not felt since Namek, with the difference being that now, she is definitely getting enough sleep in a proper bed.

Her mind is straying to Vegeta less and less, though she still wonders where he is and what he might be doing (and whether he thinks of her at all).

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It’s been almost six months since Vegeta took off – half an Earth year! – and Bulma is feeling great, despite her stubbornly frumpy middle and absent friends. She is laying on her bed, watching the distant stars through the window and thinking about a certain spiky-haired Saiyan (ugh! Not _that_ one!) while she has a little private time with her substitutes, but none of them can replace the feeling of his warm, callused hands on her body or the way his breath would gust against her throat.

She is just recovering from her climax, relaxed and sleepy, when she feels an odd sensation, like a flutter in her belly. She is still catching her breath, frowning, when it repeats, stronger this time. Placing a hand on her abdomen, she is ready to confirm the next occurrence. There is no doubt: something is moving in her belly!

Panic grips her as she jumps out of bed and rushes, still naked, to the bathroom. The overhead lights flare to live, briefly blinding her. As she blinks through the glare and at the profile of her mirror image, her heart almost stops.

_How_ could she have missed this, and intelligent woman of her age and experience? The swelling of her sensitive breasts, moving her up a cup size; the mood swings irrationally plunging her into tears over a man that she barely knew; the strange eating habits and weight gain; and above all: her rounded belly, by now protruding proud and very, very noticeably above the cradle of her hips.

Looking at herself in the mirror, there is no doubt: she is pregnant! Bulmas scream shakes the whole house.

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Overall, her parents take it well. Particularly her mom seems completely unfazed, claiming she has known for ages and seeming genuinely puzzled that it appeared to be news to Bulma herself.

"Don’t forget," she says, "that I have been doing your laundry since you were a girl. I mean, you were always irregular, but I can tell the difference between menstruation and spot bleeding."

"Mom!" Bulma locks horrified eyes on her mother, chirping away about intimate details that she would much rather not have discussed at the breakfast table, much less in front of her father.

"Don’t worry, dear." Mom pats her hand. "The baby will be here soon and once that wonderful young man of yours returns, we can all be a big, happy family."

Bulma buries her head in her hands. The only alternative would be to strangle her mother and she thinks that just wouldn’t be appropriate at the moment.

Yamcha, when he comes by later that day, is an entirely different story.

"Who is the father?" He sounds strangely defeated, but once he starts thinking about his own question, he turns an unbecoming shade of red. "Not...?" He looks at her imploringly.

When she meets his gaze with a mockingly raised eyebrow and neglects to correct his assumption, his complexion worsens.

_"Really_? Are you serious? _That_ little shit?" Bulma jumps as his fist hits the table, making the tea cups rattle. One flips off its saucer, cartwheels across the balcony and shatters with an ironic tinkle on the terrace below. She follows it with her eyes to its bitter end, keeping her gaze fixed on the shards to avoid having to look at her friend.

"Yamcha," she sighs. "It’s not what you think."

"_Not what I think_? That... animal took advantage of you. I should have known! The way he was always staring at you – disgusting! Like he wanted to eat you alive."

"‘Hey!" She interrupts the rant he is clearly gearing up for. Her eyes are flashing with indignation when she pins him with her gaze. "For your information," she stabs his chest with her index finger, enunciating every word carefully. "I was the one who started it. If it had been up to him, he would never have laid so much as a finger on me. If anyone took advantage, it was me. And for the record: I enjoyed every second of it. So you can just shut up now."

Her chest is heaving and her eyes sparkle with righteous anger. Yamcha knows this version of Bulma, and he knows when to back down. He raises his hands in defeat. "Okay, whatever you say, Bulma." She can see, though, that he is not done with this.

Everyone else seems nothing but happy for her. They have known her for a long time and are aware that she would not stand for being ‘taken advantage of’, as Yamcha insinuated. Bulma has built a bit of a reputation over the years, and she is fierce in her own right. Everyone accepts that Vegeta would not have stood a chance of dropping his lot in the hat if she had not been a willing participant.

In the end, the only person unaware of the development is the father himself, and when he will return is literally written in the stars.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, that is all I have so far. I mean, we all know how the story continues, kind of. I may come back at some point and work through the epilogue again, maybe add more, but not now.


End file.
